


Dark Days

by nothingamonth



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Play, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bisexual Howard stark, Blow Jobs, Cocaine, Daddy Kink, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Heroin, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, Rimming, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, implied shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8701363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingamonth/pseuds/nothingamonth
Summary: There was no serum for Steve Rogers.  He stayed home while Bucky went off to war, and he did what he thought he had to do to make ends meet.  Bucky returns home after the end of operations in the European theater with secrets of his own.Bucky does his best to hide what happened to him in Azzano while Steve tries to hide the tricks he turned.





	1. Homecoming

Steve quickly took stock of his situation. His little tenement was clean: the dishes had been washed, the rugs beaten, furniture dusted. It smelled like the citrus polish he’d used on the floors, which also made his chest tighten. The strings of the apron he had borrowed from Mrs. Janowski downstairs were looped around his back and tied in the front, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his face dusted with dirt. He would need to shower before he went to see Bucky’s ship come in, but someone was in the floor’s only bathroom.

He couldn’t lie; it had been more than difficult getting along in Brooklyn for four long years without Bucky. He’d had to do some things he wasn’t especially proud of to get by. Bucky had dutifully sent his pay back to Steve—and he’d used it _at first_. He was a grown man, fully capable of working and paying his own way. Hell, most of the dames he knew did it.

Then again, most of the dames he knew didn’t get fired every few months after bouts of pneumonia. 

Steve shook his head. That didn’t matter now. Operations in the European theater were over and Bucky was on his way home. Today, everything had to be perfect.

The little blond took a rag and some vinegar and started to wash the windows. He didn’t hear the door open over his tuneless humming, so when two strong arms wrapped around him from behind, he squawked and dropped the rag.

“Goddamn, I’ve never been so happy to see the back of someone’s head before,” a familiar, quavering voice said into his ear. Steve spun, too overwhelmed to speak as he stared up into stormy blue eyes all misted over with tears.

“Front’s not too shabby either,” Bucky went on. Steve leaned up on his tiptoes and crashed their mouths together. The metals on Bucky’s jacket bit into his chest, but he didn’t care. He needed this more than anything, more than air.

“I thought I was coming to get you,” Steve finally managed to say, dragging his thumbs over Bucky’s too-sharp cheekbones. 

“Ship came in early. I wanted to surprise you.” Bucky kissed him again. “And damned if you ain’t the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in that apron.” He chuckled and Steve managed a wan smile.

“Can it, jerk,” he mumbled, moving his hands to Bucky’s shaggy hair. “I didn’t want to get my shirt dirty when I didn’t have time to do laundry.” Actually, he only had the one shirt now. His other one had gotten torn during—well. Best not to think of it.

“So take it off,” Bucky suggested. He plucked at the ties of the apron, and Steve felt himself tense. Bucky felt it too.

“Was is it?” he asked.

“Just a little fast,” Steve replied, kissing him quickly. “I can’t believe you’re even here. I’m gonna shower and then I’ll start dinner. You hungry?” 

Steve could see the confusion written all over Bucky’s face—it wasn’t as though they were strangers to intimacy. But the taller man shrugged and let him go. “You know I am, Stevie. Do what you gotta do. I need to get settled back in anyhow.”

Steve ducked out of the apartment (draping the apron over the back of the couch) and into the bathroom. He undressed himself carefully. His chest was the same as always: skinny, pale, unblemished, but he knew his backside was a mess of bruises and welts. Steve had known better than to let his last client, Mr. John, go so hard on him when Bucky was due back so soon, but he’d given him enough money to pay for a steak dinner and a little extra for Bucky tonight. 

God, what would Bucky think if he knew Steve had been whoring himself out to rich draft dodgers while Bucky was away fighting for their country? Guys who liked perverted shit, like shaving him, spanking him, having him call them “daddy”…

He showered quickly and dressed in his old clothes. When he returned to their apartment, Bucky had changed out of his uniform and into more familiar civilian clothes. He was thinner, but looked like he was hewn from stone. Steve licked his lips and then licked them again.

“Steak sound okay for dinner?” Steve asked.

Bucky’s face broke into a beatific smile. “Steak sounds great, as long as I get you for dessert.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the blond smirked, taking a cast iron pan from the wall. Soon the meat was sizzling in the hot pan.

“I missed this,” Bucky said softly.

“Me too,” Steve replied. He knew things had been hard for Bucky. He’d received his letters through a mutual female friend so that the army wouldn’t be suspicious of their more salacious content. He’d been a sniper. Killed lots of people. Steve felt terrible that he was grateful that Bucky had that position. Snipers were safe, at least. Or so he had thought.

He popped the baby potatoes into the oven and joined Bucky on the couch. Steve folded his legs underneath him, conscious of the bruises on his ass. He knew he needed to tell Bucky about the bank account with his pay. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” Bucky reached for him and pulled him across his lap, but Steve just shook his head.

“Nothing. I’m so happy you’re home.”

Then they were kissing again. Bucky’s callused hands worked their way underneath Steve’s shirt, under the waistband of his trousers. Steve hissed when Bucky’s fingers kneaded the bruised flesh, but hid it with another kiss. He so desperately didn’t want this moment to end, but Bucky had to know. Steve slipped off his lap, retrieved the bank statement from the drawer in the sideboard and handed it over.

“What’s this?” Bucky asked. His eyes were still dark with desire, and he obviously had no interest in the bank slips.

“It’s your money. I—I tried not to spend it. It wasn’t right,” Steve stammered. He wrung his hands behind his back. 

Bucky glanced at the balances and then threw the papers down on the coffee table. “What the fuck, Stevie? How did you keep this place, then? That money was for _you_.” 

“I worked. Lots of jobs all of a sudden, you know? I thought when you came back, we could decide what to do with the money.” 

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, and Steve could practically hear him counting to ten in his head. Finally, he lifted his head. “I don’t want to fight with you tonight. What’s done is done, you pigheaded son of a bitch. We’ll talk about this later.”

Steve felt a little of the tension drain out of him. Bucky didn’t seem to want to push the issue of _which jobs_ any further—for now. After he’d received the telegram telling him that Bucky was listed missing in action, Steve had gone off the rails and started taking riskier jobs with men who wanted more from him than a quick blow or roll in the hay—hence his bruised ass and the case of raging syphilis he had this spring.

But then Bucky had returned. His letters talked only sparingly about his capture and what had happened in Azzano. Steve knew it had to be bad, but tonight wasn’t the night for it. He turned the steaks and checked the potatoes before returning to the couch. Bucky pulled him back onto his lap immediately. 

“I missed your smell,” Bucky whispered, burying his nose in Steve’s hair.

“I missed your stupid face,” Steve replied lightly.

“I just wanna take you to the bedroom.” Bucky kissed his cheekbone, his ear lobe. “You touch yourself a lot while I was gone?”

Steve shivered and blushed—despite everything he had now seen and experienced, he could still blush. “You know I did, Buck. Told you as much in my letters, didn’t I?”

Bucky growled and got to his feet with Steve still in his arms. He ignored the blond’s yelp of protest as he turned off the stove and oven and kicked the bedroom door open. The walls were papered with Steve’s sketches, mostly of Bucky. The brunet set him down on the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt.

Steve panicked and placed his hands over the other man’s. “Wait, wait, let’s do this right,” he said. “Lay on the bed. Let me take care of you tonight.”

“I’d rather fuck you through the mattress,” Bucky replied, arching a brow.

“Later,” Steve assured him. “Now lay down!”

Bucky did as he was told with a huff and a roll of his eyes. Steve helped him out of his clothes before straddling his hips and pulling his own off. They kissed again, tongues battling for dominance. Steve pulled back, licking his lips and the taste of Bucky there. Then he kissed his way down the other man’s neck, paying close attention to the faint scars here and there. When he captured one of Bucky’s nipples in his mouth, the brunet groaned and threaded his fingers in Steve’s hair.

“God, Stevie—“

“Just wait,” Steve replied, rolling the man’s opposite nipple between his fingers. Again, he sunk lower, laying kisses on Bucky’s lean, fluttering abdomen. When Steve nipped at the other’s navel, Bucky hissed and started pushing his head down toward his straining cock. Steve gladly cut to the chase and took Bucky’s erection into his mouth.

Bucky’s eyes rolled back in his head as he cried out. Steve’s method had changed a bit—repeat customers had taught him how to suck cock like a pro. His gag reflex was nonexistent, and he didn’t tease before he started sucking.

“God _damn_ , Steve, you tryin’ to pull it out by the roots?” Bucky gasped, his hands twisting alternately between Steve’s hair and the sheets. Steve glanced upwards, gauging his reaction. He decided not to stop. Bucky was leaking precome into his mouth, salty and a bit sweet. Steve bobbed up and down on the other’s cock, working his tongue into the slit and underside of his dick.

“Christ!” Bucky swore. “Stop! I’m gonna come!”

Steve pulled off him with a faint pop before moving up a bit. With swollen lips and dark eyes, he reached over Bucky’s head and retrieved a jar of petroleum from their nightstand. Steve dipped his fingers inside, retrieving a healthy dollop. His eyes locked on his lover’s, he slipped two fingers into himself, his mouth falling open.

“God, you’re beautiful. I missed you. Christ, I missed you.”

Steve said nothing as he scissored himself open. His clients didn’t like him to talk unless he was crying or begging, so he remained silent out of habit. When he thought he was ready, he jerked Bucky back to full hardness and lowered himself down, impaling himself on his length in one smooth motion.

Bucky bared his teeth and hissed while Steve let his head fall back on his neck, reveling in the burn of the other man’s cock inside him. He allowed himself a small whimper as he braced himself against Bucky’s chest.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned as Steve began to rock his hips back and forth in a relentless grind. His hands went to Steve’s hips to guide his rhythm. His cock nudged Steve’s prostate, and he moaned. His own erection was leaving a wet trail against Bucky’s stomach.

As their pace approached a feverish pitch, Bucky’s grip became painful. Steve was crying out now too, in a combination of pain and pleasure. Bucky was bucking up into him while he held him fast, his hips impossibly fast and brutal against Steve’s bruised buttocks. The blond just clutched at Bucky’s shoulders, helpless to stop or aid what was happening. Steve came hard—his first in a long time with another person—and the contractions of his pleasure sent Bucky over the edge. Steve felt the other man’s seed splash against his insides and drip out of him.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Bucky panted, clutching Steve to his chest.

“Yeah,” Steve sighed, dropping a kiss on the brunet’s collarbone.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Bucky sat up, taking Steve with him. His fingers ghosted over the blond’s hips where he had held him.

“Nah, I’m fine,” Steve assured him. “You’re stronger now.” 

Bucky averted his eyes. “Yeah.” 

“I like it,” he replied with a cheeky grin. 

Bucky rolled his eyes and popped him on the ass. Steve bit back a groan and climbed off him. He collected his underpants and put them on before returning to finish dinner.

* * *

 

The steak was tough and overdone, but Bucky ate it. He ate most of the potatoes, too. Steve chalked it up to rationing overseas, but as the weeks went by, he realized Bucky ate a hell of a lot more food. Also, there were a lot more broken things in their apartment: doorknobs, pull cords, even the bed frame. Steve suspected that there was something Bucky was keeping from him, but it was only fair—so was he.

Of course, he hadn’t seen any of his clients since Bucky returned. That part of his life was over and done now, but he would be lying if he wasn’t afraid of the other man finding out. He’d leave him for sure; after all, Bucky had left him money so he wouldn’t have to do exactly what he did.

_He should have saved it better, made it last…_

Steve was working in an office building a few blocks away doing basic secretarial work (which required him to wear a suit and tie, to Bucky’s endless amusement) while Bucky found work in a garage in the Bronx.

It was during the heat of the summer that Bucky rushed home on Steve’s day off. As he burst through the front door, his face was akin to a kid’s on Christmas. “Stevie, guess what?” he practically shouted.

Steve looked up from his sketchbook, a quietly amused smile on his face. “What?”

“Didja know that there’s a queer bar about ten blocks from here? We should go!”

The blond blanched. “No, I don’t think so,” he stammered.

Bucky closed the door behind him and flopped down beside the other man on the couch. His a-shirt was soaked through with sweat and grime, and Steve thought he smelled delicious.

“Come on, I wanna dance with you! Hold your hand! Show you off a bit,” he whined. Bucky looked so pathetic with his puppy dog eyes that Steve gave in with a huff. 

“Which bar?” he asked.

“It’s called Teddy’s.”

Steve trained his face into careful indifference. As though that was not the bar where he picked up johns, or where his regulars left him messages and appointments. He was sure there was a stack of blue notes behind the bar with his fake name: Arnie.

“I’m going to get showered. Get changed, would you?” Bucky stripped out of his filthy clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Something sexy,” he added.

Steve didn’t own anything sexy, as Bucky well knew. He closed his sketchbook with a sigh, questioning with his every step whether he was really going to do this. He knew how distinctive he looked. Not many short, ninety-pound blonds hanging around a queer bar like Teddy’s. It catered to a richer, more dominant kind of patron. 

Still, Steve dressed in his nice trousers, suspenders, and one of his new shirts. His tie was blue, like his eyes, and his jacket a soft shade of charcoal. Bucky returned, his hair slicked back with pomade, and put on his only dark suit. Then Steve was being dragged through the sticky Brooklyn streets to the place he absolutely did not want to go.

The bar itself was nothing special. From the outside, it looked like the place a man could grab a beer after a hard day down at the docks, but the well-dressed men hanging around outside belied the grimy feel. Inside, the room was full of smoke and soft jazz music on the jukebox. There were men at the bar and at the tables, flirting without being too obvious. A few eyes turned towards them, and for once, they were more trained on Steve than Bucky. Steve didn’t see any familiar faces, but that didn’t mean a lot. Word travelled fast in a community like this.

Bucky went to get them drinks while Steve disappeared into a tiny backroom where the owner kept office. He was an aging fellow, fought in the Great War, named Frank. He recognized Steve off the bat and greeted him with a warm smile. And why not? He got ten percent of Steve’s earnings. He was also a genuinely nice guy who understood that Steve had been doing what he had to to get by.

“Wondering when you were going to come back. I figured you were safe. Spitfire like you don’t take shit from no one,” he said, getting to his feet to clap Steve on the back.

“I got any messages? My guy’s back home. I don’t—I won’t be working anymore,” Steve replied. 

“Shame. You were paying my liquor tab for a while.” Frank grabbed a sheaf of blue notes from his desk and put them in Steve’s hand. Steve didn’t look at them, but dumped them in the wastebasket beside Frank’s desk.

“Thanks for everything, Frankie.”

“No problem, Stevie,” the older man replied. “You and your guy are welcome any time.”

Steve returned to the bar, feeling significantly more at ease. Bucky handed him a beer in a sweating glass, and Steve downed it in a few gulps.

“Careful, doll,” Bucky warned, placing a hand on the small of the other’s back. “You want to dance?”

“Why not?” Steve asked, foregoing his usual protestations about his lack of grace and coordination. He trusted Bucky to lead him. He’d always been fine when it had just been the two of them together with the radio in their living room.

Bucky grabbed his hand, smiling at Steve over his shoulder. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and Steve had to smile back. Bucky pulled him into the circle of his arms and turned him in slow circles in time with the music.

“This is a fuckin’ rush,” Bucky whispered into his ear. “No one to push us apart—arrest us.”

“I feel like everyone’s watchin’ me,” Steve replied.

“Only ‘cause you’re beautiful.”

Steve sighed and rested his head against Bucky’s shoulder.

They must have been dancing for several minutes when Bucky suddenly drew up short and spun Steve around so that his back was facing the door.

“What?” Steve asked, panic rising like bile in his throat. His eyes were wide as he searched Bucky’s suddenly pale face.

“Someone I know just walked in,” he hissed, carting Steve off toward a back corner when suddenly a shout of “Captain Barnes!” brought them up short. 

“Howard,” Bucky acknowledged slowly, shoving Steve behind him. Steve still peeked out from underneath the other man’s arm. “Howard” was definitely rich, not unattractive, and Steve might have once entertained him as a client, but he didn’t know him.

“Who’s that sweet little thing you’re hiding?” Howard asked, running his fingers over his moustache. Although on the short side, he was definitely handsome, in a playboy kind of way. Full lips and a come hither gaze, he looked like a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

“Steve,” the blond answered, partially stepping out from under Bucky’s arm. He wasn’t so much a coward as to let a stranger call him “a sweet little thing” without getting one of his patented glares. 

“Oh, the famous Steve! An honor to meet you, sir. Our dear captain couldn’t shut the hell up about you for half an hour over there,” Howard replied, doffing his hat.

“Steve, Howard worked with my unit. He’s some sort of inventor genius or something,” Bucky explained with a dismissive wave of his arm.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve said politely. 

“Likewise, dollface. Why don’t we all sit and have a drink, seeing as we have more in common than we thought,” Howard suggesting, ordering the barkeep over to a table with a crooked hand. Steve slid into a booth first with Bucky sliding in after him. Howard stretched out across the other bench.

While the barkeep set the drinks down in front of them, Steve took the time to study the intruder. “You’re Howard Stark, aren’t you? Bucky told me about you in his letters. He said you were an asshole.” 

The engineer threw his head back in laughter even as Bucky glared down at Steve. “Saved your guy a time or two, I suspect. And for what it’s worth, he ain’t easy to work with neither. Always suspected he was queer.”

Howard lit a cigarette, and Steve discretely hid a cough into his sleeve. The ambient smoke had been bothering him for a while, but Howard’s clove cigarettes were especially irritating.

“Put it out, Stark. Steve has asthma,” Bucky snapped.

“My apologies,” Howard replied. His smile to Steve was positively wolfish. Steve sighed and glanced at the door. He caught the eyes of a man who was vaguely familiar—maybe one of his one night stands—he couldn’t be sure. Steve watched him approach, look at Bucky and Howard, and then turn on his heel. 

“I’m glad I ran into you, Barnes. I have some questions to ask about Azzano,” Howard said, bringing Steve’s attention back to the conversation. Bucky tensed beside him.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Bucky snapped. His hand gripped the edge of the table, and Steve suppressed a gasp when the wood splintered a little under his fingers. Steve placed his hand on Bucky’s thigh, looking up at him questioningly.

“You two been together some time, eh?” Howard asked.

“Third grade or so,” Steve murmured, still looking at Bucky’s closed profile. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then he was moving, almost too quickly for Steve to track. 

“Let’s get out of here, Stevie,” Bucky said, pulling the small blond out of the seat, who was getting a little tired of being manhandled. He tugged his sleeve away and tried to maintain his dignity. That lasted about a minute before he was grabbed from behind from the same man who had eyed him earlier. 

“Hey, sweetheart. I missed your mouth,” he muttered. That was about as far as he got before both Bucky and Howard were on him. It was hard for Steve to tell exactly what was happening until Bucky wrenched the man’s hand forward and, with a twist of his wrist, broke both bones of his wrist.

When the screaming started, Steve yanked Bucky away and out of the bar as quickly as he could. When they were about four blocks away, Steve had to stop because his lungs felt like they were going to explode.

“That was a bad idea,” Bucky finally said, rubbing Steve’s back. Steve didn’t agree or disagree. On the one hand, there would be fewer fellas trying to procure his services, but on the other, he still felt terrible about hiding such a terrible secret. 

“What did he mean, about Azzano?” Steve asked. 

Again, Bucky stilled. “If I tell you, will you tell me whatever it is you’re keeping from me?”

Steve bit his lower lip. All at once, he decided he couldn’t keep it to himself anymore. He nodded.

“They experimented on me in Azzano. Pumped some shit into my veins—burned like fire. After I got out, things were—different. I couldn’t get drunk anymore. My sight was better, could hit a target a mile off. Then I might have ripped a man’s arm off with my bare hands. They did something to me. I don’t think I’m human anymore, baby—I don’t—“ 

“Of course you’re human, Buck!” Steve pulled him into an alley and wrapped his arms around him. They were behind a dumpster, which felt pretty appropriate considering what Steve was about to tell him. “Of course you’re human.”

“I don’t feel it sometimes. I see the marks I leave on you and I—Christ, I feel terrible…”

“Buck, I don’t care. When I thought you were gone, I—I did some pretty stupid shit. That’s what I haven’t told you.”

Bucky stared down into his face, his too-strong hands gripping his shoulders.

“I kept getting fired from every place I got a job. I couldn’t do factory work. I had pneumonia every winter. At first, I _did_ use your salary. I woulda been out on the street if I hadn’t. But then I got that telegram that said you were—you were gone. I didn’t know what to do. I had some money saved up, but not a lot.”

“What are you trying to tell me, Steve?” Bucky’s face was agonized. He probably didn’t notice that he was shaking the other man slightly.

“I turned tricks. Rich guys, mostly. They paid to hit me—sometimes, they wouldn’t pay me unless I was all shaved—down there.”

Bucky’s face crumbled. “What? Stevie, you did—“

“I didn’t think I had a choice!” Steve wailed. “Please, please, don’t leave me!”

“Did you fuck them?” the brunet asked in a small voice.

“Sometimes. Not often,” Steve said weakly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Bucky was going to leave him here in this alley, and that’s what he deserved. Then he was hauled into Bucky’s arms and squeezed until one of his ribs cracked.

“I am so sorry. How could you think I would ever leave you? I killed so many people and got paid for it, you think sleeping with a few guys for money is going to bother me?”

But Steve was already crying in shame, shaking his head. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he repeated.

“You did fine, baby. You lived. That’s the important part.”

Steve didn’t feel like it was that important.


	2. Aftermath

With their remaining savings and new income, Steve and Bucky relocated to a Brownstone in a better part of town. Steve finally had his own studio, and Bucky took great delight in remodeling their kitchen cabinets and furniture. Because he was no longer hiding his secret, Bucky took no small amount of delight in tearing things apart with his bare hands. Steve let him. It was—fun to watch.

Steve still felt like a piece of human garbage when he thought about what he did during the war, and he knew Bucky felt the same about himself, but at least they were no longer tip-toeing around the issues. 

Bucky was in the living room pummeling another piece of furniture into compliance while Steve sat in the airy room that served as his studio, chewing on his charcoal eraser. He was fighting back a cold, but if the achy feeling in his joints was any indicator, he was losing. Steve was prone to fits of melancholy when he was tired or sick, and this time was no different. On his easel was a stark rendering of a bound man being whipped. His charcoals had, in just a few strokes, captured the man’s agony perfectly.

On another scrap of newsprint, one man had another bent over his knee, his arm raised to spank him. And on another, a man groveling at another’s feet, hands outstretched while the seated man smoked a cigarette.

Memories, all of them. Some men had wanted to take their anger out on him or exercise their power. Steve _was_ just a second-generation Irish immigrant from Brooklyn, after all. Less worth noticing than trash blowing in the wind for the men who came from Manhattan to pick him up. Other men wanted to hurt him just to hurt him, and others just wanted someone to wait on them. The ones Steve hated the most were the ones who wanted him because he could pass as prepubescent, but he supposed he was grateful, in a way, that they got him instead of a real kid. 

Steve slipped out of his chair and stretched out on the floor. The hardwood floor felt good against his crooked back. He remembered a man who had requested he wear one of the uniforms from the Sacred Heart of Jesus, short pants, blazer and all. He’d been one of the worst: never letting him speak above a muted whisper while he talked incessantly, and, worst of all, fucking him dry every time.

Steve lifted his arm and grabbed the bottle of cheap gin from where he stashed it under a cabinet. Without sitting up, he twisted the cap off and took a long swig. It cleared his sinuses right up and gave him a nice warm feeling in the pit of his stomach. He drank a lot these days, when other drugs weren’t forthcoming. Reefer was really his favorite, but he’d been known to take whatever Howard handed him, despite Bucky’s disapproval.

Steve Rogers did not feel much like himself these days.

Bucky, who had been denied the escape of drugs, used sex as an escape. Steve bore the marks of the other man’s desperation on his body. Bucky tried to be easy with him, but Steve didn’t tell him when he was hurt or when he wasn’t in the mood. What right did he have to say ‘no’ to Bucky when he made other men pay for it?

“Steve! I’m making sandwiches; do you want one?” Bucky stuck his head in Steve’s studio and saw him laid out on the floor. So it wasn’t a good day, then, but from the clarity in his eyes, at least he was still (mostly?) sober.

“Yeah, I’ll join you,” Steve replied, sitting up. He rubbed the back of his neck like it was sore before struggling to his feet. “Got a cold or something brewin’,” he mumbled.

“You want soup instead?” Bucky offered. Steve was losing weight, which was extremely alarming, considering. Even though they had their own bathroom now, his hair was unwashed and he smelled pretty powerfully. Maybe Bucky could talk him into sharing a bath later.

“Sandwiches are great, Buck,” Steve said with that silly, absolutely fake smile on his face. As he passed him in the hallway, Bucky caught a whiff of alcohol—the little blond was hiding gin somewhere again.

They sat down on the couch with their food. Now that Bucky wasn’t slamming away at his piece, Steve could hear the radio over the sounds of the city. The windows were open, a hot, damp wind ruffled their clothes and hair.

“You want to talk about why you smell like a boozy Christmas tree?” Bucky suddenly asked.

Steve turned his eyes on the other man, but before he had a chance to speak, a breaking news bulletin broke in over the radio.   Harry Truman’s voice filled the living room.

_“Sixteen hours ago an American airplane dropped one bomb on Hiroshima and destroyed its usefulness to the enemy. That bomb had more power than 20,000 tons of TNT. It had more than two thousand times the blast power of the British “Grand Slam,” which is the largest bomb ever yet used in the history of warfare.”_

The two men promptly forgot about the squabble they were about to have and froze, there on the couch. Steve moved first, putting his hand on Bucky’s thigh. The brunet stared numbly down at his lap.

_“It is an atomic bomb. It is a harnessing of the basic power of the universe. The force from which the sun draws its power has been loosed against those who brought war to the Far East.”_

After the president’s announcement, another radio commentator followed it up with the estimated death tolls. Steve bit his lower lip and tried not to let his tears show. Tens of thousands of people blown away in a heartbeat. He couldn’t imagine. He didn’t _want_ to imagine.

“Well,” Bucky finally sighed, “I guess I don’t feel so bad about being a goddamn war machine. My kills are only in the hundreds.” 

Steve tucked his head underneath Bucky’s chin in a wordless show of comfort. Bucky clutched at him like Steve was going to float away. The smaller man patted his thigh, and the next thing he knew, he was staring up at the ceiling as Bucky wrestled him to the floor and kissed him with punishing force. His clothes were torn away and Bucky’s hands were on him, too rough—far, far too rough.

He could have told Bucky that he was hurting him, but he didn’t. Steve let the other man use him, hurt him, press bruises into his flesh. He didn’t even pretend to get anything out of it, but when Bucky finished, Steve rolled onto his side and drew his legs up to his chest. He felt like he’d been run over by a tank. Steve could taste blood in his mouth.

“Oh. Oh, God, Steve, are you okay?” Bucky gingerly touched his thigh, and Steve recoiled out of instinct.

“I didn’t mean it,” the brunet said softly.

“You did, an’ it’s fine. If that’s what helps ya, right? I couldn’t fight. I didn’t see what you saw. I might resent me too, if I were you,” Steve mumbled. He kept his eyes screwed shut, his skinny arms wrapped around his legs. His ribs were definitely broken. 

“I don’t _resent_ you, dummy. I’m _glad_ your harebrained scheme to enlist didn’t work. You woulda died over there, an’ it would have meant nothing.” Bucky reclined against the side of the couch, pushing his hand through his hair. Steve couldn’t stop shaking.

“It’s okay,” the blond assured him.

“Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my own bullshit I don’t even notice—“

Bucky looked over at Steve and saw him valiantly attempt not to cough blood up on their carpet. 

“I don’t even notice I’m hurting you,” he concluded. He pulled Steve’s arms away from his body to inspect the damage. From his shoulders to his hips, his skin was already beginning to purple. “You’re indestructible, Steve Rogers, you know that?”

“I think that’s you.” Steve managed a weak laugh.

“Only physically. That shit they dosed me with—it made the good stuff better but the bad stuff worse. If it had been you, you coulda won this war with one hand tied behind your back. Instead, they got me. A fuckin’ queer who’d do anything just to get back to you. And I did. I set Europe on fire for you.” 

* * *

 

After a long day at the office, Steve felt he could allow himself a drink. He’d never been back to Teddy’s after that day, but there was a pub around the corner from their new place that he went to sometimes. It wasn’t a queer bar, and for the most part, Steve was left alone. Sometimes Bucky came with him, mostly for the camaraderie. It wasn’t as though he got anything from downing shots. Howard had a way of turning up too.

Steve still hurt from the personal aftermath of the Hiroshima bombings. Bucky had done a number on him, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t received worse in a back alley beating. Unfortunately, his cold was now raging and likely to turn into a full-blown sinus infection. Every time he sneezed, he thought he was going to die.

When the US dropped another bomb on Nagasaki, they had only cried together. The war was over, but it was never really _over_.

He was halfway through his beer when Howard slid onto the stool beside him. “Hey, Stevie, what’s kickin’?”

Steve shrugged, despite the pain it caused him. He knew Howard had no interest in him sexually. The millionaire had dames and fellas quite literally out the wazoo, if his stories were to be believed. So Steve had no idea why Howard pursued him so relentlessly.

“You look like shit, my friend,” the engineer said, clapping Steve on the back.

“Cold,” Steve explained, gesturing to his face with one hand.

“I could give you something for it,” Howard offered, and Steve knew he meant speed. But that shit only strained his already damaged heart, so he shook his head. Howard leaned back against the bar, looking down at the little blond speculatively.

“I’ve been researching what HYDRA gave your James Buchanan ‘Buckminster’ ‘Buckert’ ‘Bucky’ Barnes, and I think I can replicate it. Maybe not as well, but I think I can,” he said.

“Why are you telling me this?” Steve asked, ignoring the ridiculous nicknames.

“Because I need a volunteer. I already know you can keep a secret.”

“Not from Bucky. Bucky will never allow it.” 

“What do you want, doll?” Howard asked. “You’re clever. You have to have thought about it. He won’t age. Soon, you’ll be older than him. You’ll get sick and die, and he’ll still look twenty-seven.”

Steve’s stomach lurched, but he finished his beer anyway. “You got any hop?” he asked.

“I dunno, you adorable drug addict; what would Bucky say?” Howard taunted.

“Fine! I’ll be your damned guinea pig, just fix me up first,” Steve snapped. He didn’t sound nearly as intimidating as he wanted with his nose plugged up.

* * *

 

Howard’s place in Manhattan was immaculate, and he shot heroin into Steve’s vein with the precision of a doctor (or long term drug addict). While Steve was nodding from the effects of a healthy dose of china white, Howard injected something else into Steve’s other arm—something that burned and tickled. Steve giggled, his head lolling against the back of an old wingback chair. Howard took notes.

The high was disappointingly short. Howard got him a cab back to his house, and by then, Steve had crashed. He flopped down on their bed face first. Steve didn’t even realize that his ribs didn’t hurt, and his sinuses were crystal clear.

When Bucky got home from the garage, he found Steve resting peacefully—like the war never happened, like it was 1939 again. His face was clear and calm for once, not a furrow in sight. Bucky knelt to take off his lover’s shoes and tucked him in properly. At the moment, he didn’t care if Steve needed drugs to look like that. Bucky just wanted Steve to be happy again, but he kept hurting him, over and over and over—

Maybe some part of him _did_ resent Steve. Objectively, he understood the decisions Steve had to make. That didn’t mean that it didn’t piss him off. He hated that Steve compromised himself. He hated even more that he felt he had no other options. Bucky wondered if there hadn’t been some other way— _any_ other way.

Secretly, he wondered if Steve hadn’t liked it.

Was that why Bucky hurt him?

He pushed Steve’s hair out of his eyes with a sigh. The blond’s eyes fluttered open, and Bucky could see he wasn’t high. His pupils were normally sized and locked on him; his face was relaxed but not slack.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said, his voice rough from sleep. “I did somethin’ dumb.”

“What else is new, brat?” Bucky smiled softly. He wanted this moment, this almost-normal moment, to go on for just a little while longer. 

“Will you make love to me?” Steve asked. He averted his eyes when he made his request and blushed prettily. Bucky reached for him instinctively, but drew back at the last moment.

“Your ribs,” he remembered.

“They’re fine. Please?” Steve grabbed Bucky’s hands and pressed his lips to his callused his fingers. Bucky capitulated with a sigh, kicking his shoes off as he climbed on the bed beside the other man.

“Okay, but easy,” he replied, bracketing Steve’s hips with his knees. Bucky was determined to keep his weight off the smaller man. Steve pulled him down with surprising strength and kissed him. Bucky moaned into the other’s mouth and started unbuttoning Steve’s shirt. His palms slid down Steve’s flanks as the smaller man pressed himself close. His thigh went between Bucky’s legs and started a slow, delicious grind.

“Take off your shirt,” Steve whispered, tugging at Bucky’s a-shirt. His small, elegant hands flattened against the other man’s abdomen. Bucky obeyed and was rewarded by those hands caressing his nipples. The brunet gasped and moved to brace himself with one hand beside Steve’s head.

Steve wrapped his legs around Bucky’s waist and pulled the other man’s pants down with his heels. “Will you let me eat you out?” he asked softly.

Bucky’s voice caught in his throat. “I—I just got home from work,” he replied. The request caught him by surprise; Steve had never expressed interest in that. A distant part of him wondered what Steve was trying to atone for.

“I like your smell,” Steve replied, pushing at his shoulders until Bucky was flat on his back. Steve pulled his pants the rest of the way off and buried his face in the other man’s groin. Bucky groaned and twisted his hands in the sheets. The intimacy was almost too much, and then Steve licked his asshole.

* * *

 

“Howard shot me up with heroin and a replica of the drug HYDRA gave you.”

Bucky punched a hole through the wall and then went to find Stark.

He found him with a bed full of prostitutes and a pile of cocaine in a Manhattan hotel room. Bucky dashed the drugs to the carpet with one hand and seized Howard’s naked ankle with the other, dragging him off the bed.

“What the hell, Buckminster!” the engineer shouted as he thumped against the floor. The prostitutes looked on dispassionately.

“Listen to me closely. You saw me tear a man’s arm off in Poland. What did you think I would do to you after you fucked with Steve?” he hissed.

“Hey, he volunteered!” Howard snapped, kicking Bucky’s hand off him. He cast a wistful look at the lost cocaine as he got to his feet. Bucky shoved him back down. Howard crashed into a nightstand, and the prostitutes started to gather their clothing. 

“You bribed him with drugs! Knowing how he is!”

“Did you see his ribs? Listen to his breathing? He’s already better than he was before! Soon the drugs won’t matter, either,” Howard replied. “I’m doing you a fucking favor! Extra, extra: you’re not aging, if you hadn’t noticed! Without my intervention, Steve would die in a few years and you’d still be trying to grow a full beard!” He tossed a handful of bills at the women as they departed.

Bucky curled his hands into fists and relaxed. And again. “This is bullshit,” he growled; “you don’t know what this will do to him.” 

“So far so good, right?”

Bucky _did_ punch him then, even if he pulled most of it. “I can’t tell Steve what to do and what not to do. But if you hurt him—a single goddamn hair on his head, Howard—I will kill you.”

 “You think I don’t care for Steve?” Howard rubbed his cheek and spit blood onto the expensive sheets. “I’m trying to help him, you stupid son of a bitch.”

“Remember what I said, Howard,” Bucky snarled.

So the experiments continued, once a week for three months. It became clear that Howard’s serum did not function in the same way that Bucky’s did. Steve didn’t get bigger or taller (much to Steve’s dismay). His health stabilized. His spirits lifted. His art took on new life.

He healed rapidly. 

It became clear that Howard’s serum affected Steve’s brain more than his body. By Howard’s estimate, his IQ went up at least twenty points. Steve won every game of chess he played and demonstrated a knack for tactics. Howard employed him immediately as a financial consultant, and Stark Industry’s stock skyrocketed.

Steve also became rather devious at home. Bucky never knew when he would walk into an ambush that would end with spectacular orgasm. So far, the time Steve had hidden in the kitchen cabinet and sucked him off while he was doing the dishes was Bucky’s favorite.

Steve could no longer get high.

Howard offered to alter the serum so that Steve could have the same strength and resilience as his lover, but Steve declined. Now that it functioned correctly, Steve liked his body. He liked how it fit so well against Bucky’s. He liked the way Bucky could throw him around. He liked that he didn’t have to worry about breaking. 

Steve sat at his desk in a Manhattan skyscraper as one part of his brain considered the potential benefits of an acquisition of a small technology outfit, while the other thought about how he could surprise Bucky tonight. 

There was a knock at the door, and his concentration vanished. “Come in,” he called, and Howard burst in (he was always bursting into places—he never simply _entered_ a room) along with one of the most beautiful women Steve had ever seen. Her sable hair was pinned back in waves, dark eyes sharp, lips painted red set in a determined frown.

Steve swallowed audibly. Brunets were his weakness. 

“How can I help you?” he asked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, sorry. Today we sort out Steve's drama, and next time, Buckert's!

Her name was Margaret “Peggy” Carter, and she worked with Howard and Bucky during the war. She and the scientist took seats in the two shitty chairs he had in his office for some reason, after, or course, all his files and assorted bric-a-brac had been moved to the floor.

Steve fiddled with a pencil while the two stared at him. The point jabbed into the tip of his finger, drew blood, healed, and drew blood again. “I’m sorry. What’s this about again?” he asked. 

“Pegs needs a guy with your unique capabilities,” Howard abruptly explained, lighting a cigarette. 

“And, uh, what would those be?” Steve was blushing, beginning to wilt under the woman’s gaze.

“The captain has been ducking my messages,” she suddenly said. “Perhaps if he had responded, I wouldn’t have to ask this of you.”

“Ask what?” A drop of blood splattered against his blotter, but the wound from which it fell was already closed.

“I shared the results of the experiment with Peggy as well as—certain parts of your resume,” Howard said. The pencil snapped in Steve’s hands. He looked over at Peggy and made no attempt to hide his shame and embarrassment. She only gave him a sympathetic smile and dropped her shoulder in a shrug. Somehow, that made it worse—her pity.

“I’ll skip right to it, then. There’s a man working in my employ that I suspect to be a double agent. While we were tailing him, we discovered certain facts about his sexual proclivities. You are right up his alley, as they say.”

“You want me to seduce him,” Steve said. He felt sick to his stomach. He and Bucky had been doing so well… It could be his chance to atone, but it _would_ be his luck that his only chance to do so would be to hike his legs up in the air again.

“Yes,” Peggy replied, and had the decency to look pained about it.

“You said if Bucky had spoken to you—“

“I wouldn’t have had a need to employ so many agents to begin with. He could have been very useful to us, Steve, but he wanted nothing to do with any of us after the war.”

“You can’t exactly blame him,” Steve mumbled. He picked up a paperweight to fiddle with this time.

“No, not knowing he had someone to return to,” the brunette said. She nodded at him emphatically.

Steve set his jaw. “You know about that too, but you’re still asking me—…”

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

“Buckert doesn’t have to know,” Howard added.

Steve knew he would find out anyway, and a part of him was afraid. Bucky would hurt him—maybe seriously this time. His rages were unpredictable, but not often directed at Steve anymore.

“You’re asking a lot,” he finally said.

Peggy uncrossed her legs and sat straighter in her chair. “I’m not telling you that you have to sleep with him. I just need the information. Howard tells me that you are smart enough to retrieve it.”

Steve didn’t doubt it. But he wasn’t strong like Bucky. The situation could easily get out of control. “Tell me what you know about this—person,” he asked.

Peggy reached down and pulled a file from her satchel. Sliding it across the desk, Steve allowed his eyes to linger on her pretty hands: neatly manicured nails, slender fingers. “He likes very young men,” she said.

“Is that all he likes?” Steve asked, trying to keep his voice light as he studied the personnel file. The man was in his mid-forties, typical looking—boring, almost. His name was Gerald and he was a government employee with unusually high security clearance. At first glance, there was nothing to suggest he was a double agent.

“No,” Peggy replied. Her red lips were pressed into a grim line.

“And, saying I agreed, how would you expect me to meet this man?”

“It’s already been arranged. Should you agree, we would have you replace his usual boy.”

Steve dropped his head into his hands. _Usual boy_. He’d been lots of guys’ _usual boy_.

“We’d make it worth your while, Stevie,” Howard said.

“How? How could you _possibly_ make this ‘worth my while’?” he asked, lifting his head. Howard recoiled from the look on his face. Peggy sighed.

“We won’t conscript Captain Barnes into service. We will pretend as though neither you nor Barnes is anything more than a civilian—as long as you cooperate with us. In our current circumstances, a spy is much more useful to us than a soldier.”

Steve clenched his jaw. He didn’t have to ask what would happen if he refused. But would that save him from Bucky’s anger when he found out? Would he be able to get the information without having to compromise himself again? Would he be able to do this sober?

“Fine,” he finally said. “Tell me where I need to be and what information you’re looking for.”

* * *

 

Howard, being the clever bastard that he was, invited the Howling Commandos to New York for a reunion the night that Steve was to seduce the double agent. Bucky barely noticed he was gone—which, to be honest, hurt Steve quite a bit. The brunet didn’t even try to introduce him to his friends, as though he were ashamed of Steve, of what he was. He knew he was a deviant, a drug addict… but he was still Bucky’s friend. 

So, Steve was picked up a few blocks from his house and taken to an antique shop, which he learned was actually a front for some kind of queer bordello. He dressed himself up nice in clothes that were too young for a twenty-seven year old man: high-waisted trousers with a plaid shirt. A pale, pastel sweater went over, two sizes too big, which managed to make him look even younger. Looking in the mirror, Steve saw a rather preppy teenager, fresh-faced and scrubbed clean. 

He felt filthy. 

An hour later, another car came, picked him up, and took him to a Manhattan apartment complex. The doorman let him up to the 38th floor without comment and when he knocked at the door, Gerald answered. He was taller than Steve by quite a bit, dressed only in a thin robe. Steve felt his cheeks redden. 

“You must be Arnie,” Gerald said, appraising him from top to bottom. “How old _are_ you?”

“Seventeen,” Steve replied, hating himself. “May I come inside?”

Gerald stepped aside, and Steve brushed past him into the apartment. “Gee, mister, this is some place,” he said in hushed tones, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his sweater. Gerald came up behind him and wrapped his hands around Steve’s waist. The blond turned his head to the side as the other man inhaled the scent of his skin.

“You really _are_ seventeen,” he said, almost in awe; “only virgins smell this sweet. Are you a virgin for me, baby?”

Steve didn’t have to fake a stammer or the way he curled into himself. “P-Please, mister, I’ve never done this before. My mama’s real sick an’ I just need some money.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take real good care of you.” Gerald pushed his unclothed erection against Steve’s ass. Steve wrapped his arms around himself and let out a tiny sob. It made the other man’s cock twitch.

His sweater was pulled over his head, and he was turned to face the other man. Tears welled in his eyes as Gerald deftly unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the tails free of his trousers and let it drop to the floor. Steve lifted his hands to shield himself, but they were brushed aside.

“Oh, you are so sweet. So cute,” Gerald sighed, pinching one of Steve’s nipples. His mouth was hanging open like a dope, and Steve wondered if he would actually drool. Still, he shivered and whimpered and put his hand on Gerald’s wrist like he’d never done this before.

Peggy said Gerald was smart, but Steve was smarter. Gerald would never admit to some whore he didn’t know that he was a double agent. Likely, he had some proof floating around his apartment. If it were Steve-- 

“I want to see your cute little dick,” Gerald growled, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. His hands were on the smaller man’s belt and his pants were shoved down his thighs. Steve took a step back, cupping his groin with both hands. Gerald went after him, and Steve took off running—as much as he could with his pants around his knees. He let himself trip and fall and crash onto the plush carpet. He also let himself be pulled by his ankles toward what he assumed was the bedroom while he pretended to cry.

“Please, mister, please! I’m scared! Don’t hurt me,” he begged, and Gerald turned and collected him from the floor.

“Of course not, baby. But you don’t run from Daddy, got it?” the larger man snapped.

“Yes! I understand, please! Please!” Steve cried.

Anyway, if it were Steve, he would probably hide the evidence where he hid his pornography, condoms, and drugs. It would be easier to dispose of it all at once in the event of a sweep. But where?

“Okay, Daddy. But please, be gentle with me? I got this asthma—“ 

Gerald picked him up and threw him bodily on the bed. Once again, Steve pretended to escape while he glanced about the bedroom. Logically, it would be the best place to hide sensitive material, especially if it was hidden along with things that would out Gerald as queer. 

Gerald slapped him hard on the ass, and Steve cried out, only half pretending. “Now, now. Don’t be a bad boy. Tell me, baby, you got a crush on some cute little thing in a skirt and pom poms, or do you crank one off thinking about going down on your knees for the quarterback?” 

Steve collapsed onto his stomach on the bed, eyeing one of the paintings. This was a fancy enough apartment to have a wall safe. But that would be far too obvious. No, if it were in a safe, it wouldn’t be in the wall.

“N-no, Daddy. I don’t touch myself. Father Tom said it’s a sin. It makes you impure,” he lied.

Now, Gerald probably thought he was a pretty smart guy. Maybe his ego blinded him to the danger he was in. Maybe the evidence wasn’t hidden at all. Steve’s eyes went to the desk. 

“Oh, baby, you’re plenty pure,” Gerald assured him, sliding his fingers down the downy cleft of Steve’s ass. “Sweet and tight, pink and white. I think I’m in love.” 

Steve rolled his eyes even as he flipped onto his back, still hiding his cock behind his hands. Looking up into Gerald’s dumb, leering face, the blond would bet his salary that he left something out in the open, not even realizing. He closed his eyes as he imagined him coming home from work. At the same time, Gerald moved his hands away and pinned them to the mattress. 

He would come in, dump his stuff on the couch (not a neat one, Gerald), and get something to eat. He probably didn’t cook, so he would pick something up at a deli. He might even bring his work with him to the dinner table. Lots of single men did.

“Mm, you’re shivering. You scared?” Gerald asked him, and Steve opened his eyes.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he said again, almost genuine this time. Gerald hit him in the face.

While he was reeling, he handcuffed Steve to the bed. 

_Well, shit._

Gerald pulled Steve’s shoes, socks, and pants all the way off, leaving him naked. Steve still had one hand free, but he wasn’t much stronger than he was before Howard’s experiment. He was stuck.

“No,” he begged, “not like this!”

“You already ran from me twice, baby. Can’t have that,” Gerald panted. “Just be a good boy for me. That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it? After all, you got a sick ma.”

Steve began panic in earnest then, thinking that this couldn’t happen again, not again, Christ, not again! He didn’t want this! He just wanted them to leave Bucky alone. He wanted Bucky to be normal again. He wanted Bucky not to hurt. He wanted… 

Gerald’s weight was suddenly pulled off him. Steve opened his eyes and instinctively huddled against the headboard he was shackled to. Bucky stood there, his shirt open at the collar, his suspenders down around his knees. His face was cold, expressionless as his hand tightened on Gerald’s throat. A muffled crack rang in Steve’s ears as the man’s trachea collapsed. When Bucky dropped him on the floor, he was quite dead. 

He turned to Steve. “I guess it doesn’t matter if he’s a double agent anymore, does it?” he asked woodenly.

“You knew?” Steve breathed. His body was still tense because he was still very much afraid. This was not the Bucky he grew up with. This was someone else.

“Howard squealed after I broke two of his fingers. He told me they blackmailed you into this. Using me.” He reached over and snapped the cuffs off of the bed frame. Then, gingerly, he sat down beside Steve and wrapped him in a blanket. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

Steve tried hard not to cry. “I just don’t want you to hurt anymore,” he replied.

“You said that. I heard you say that when he was on top of you. I thought—maybe—before—that you liked this. Sleeping with other men. I—don’t think that now.”

The blond squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw ached from holding back tears. “Can we do this somewhere else?” he asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Let me get your clothes, okay?”

Bucky stepped around the dead body and collected Steve’s clothes, and then helped him into them. They left through the service entrance and took a cab back to Brooklyn. A very tense cab ride. When they got back, the house was even worse. Bucky’s old war buddies were still there, and so was Howard. A black man was splinting his fingers. 

“Everyone, this is Steve. Steve, this is Gabe, Jim, and Dum Dum Dugan. I’m sorry you didn’t meet earlier. I thought Steve wasn’t feeling well.”

“Nice to meet you,” Steve said awkwardly. The Asian man, Jim, got up and shook his hand warmly, like this was all normal, and the big one, Dum Dum, gave him a bone crushing hug. Steve returned the sentiment with hesitation. He didn’t know how much Bucky had told them about their relationship. And he’d been through a lot tonight and was dressed like a child. 

“Can we talk about how this psychopath broke my goddamned fingers?” Howard interjected from the kitchen table.

“You sent his boy off to get raped by a pervert, what do you expect?” Gabe replied.

“You’re lucky he only broke two fingers. I’d’ve ripped your dick off, you did that to my wife,” Jim added.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change,” Steve said, pulling away from Bucky’s side.

“I’m joining you,” Bucky replied, trailing after him. Steve kept hearing the crack of Gerald’s trachea replayed over and over in his ears. He shuddered as Bucky closed the bedroom door behind them.

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” Steve asked quietly.

“Why would I mind, doll? I ain’t mad at you. Are you scared of me now?”

Steve pulled off his clothes but kept his back to Bucky. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t want the other man to see him fully nude. “I just never seen a man get killed before.”

Bucky’s face fell. “I know I’m a monster. I tried to tell you.”

“You are not. I just—need a little time alone, alright? Let me shower, then we’ll talk.”

The truth was, Steve never wanted to talk about this night again.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve woke before Bucky the next morning. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say that Steve never slept. He padded into the kitchen, stepping around the sleeping bodies— 

_Don’t think of Gerald, Steve, don’t think—_

—of the Howling Commandos to make coffee. Gabe was sleeping soundly on the couch while Jim and Dugan took the floor. Howard was long gone, probably to nice pile of cocaine and/or heroin, and Steve couldn’t say he wasn’t envious. He’d heard nothing from Agent Carter. 

While he waited for the coffee to percolate, he stared out the kitchen window. It had a decent view (for New York, in any case), and he could see the steel gray sky and knew it meant snow. This would be his first snow that he didn’t have to dread, the first winter he wouldn’t catch pneumonia. He might have felt happy if he weren’t terrified about what was going to happen to them. 

The smell of the coffee gradually woke the others. Bucky was first, coming into the kitchen and wrapping himself around Steve. He nuzzled his hair before resting his chin on the blond’s shoulder. “Looks like snow,” he grumbled.

“Mm,” Steve agreed. His body initially tensed when Bucky approached him, but gradually relaxed in his embrace. This was still his Bucky. Bucky hadn’t introduced him because Steve had been acting strangely, not because he was ashamed. Bucky had hurt him when he first came home, but hadn’t laid a hand in anger on him since.

Things were okay. There was no reason to be scared, but still, his stomach was heavy with dread. 

Gabe woke next, then Dugan, and finally Jim. Bucky only released Steve when he went to pour the coffee, which answered Steve’s question about how much had been disclosed to Bucky’s Howling Commandos.

“Rough night,” Jim mumbled, running a hand through his already tousled hair.

 _Tell me about it_ , Steve thought. The murder likely would not be traced back to either of them, but that left the question of what Agent Carter intended to do with them. There would be consequences. Steve imagined a lifetime of captivity, of laboratories. They would turn Bucky into a weapon, maybe Steve too.

“We can’t stay here,” he said suddenly, inhaling the steam from his coffee mug.

“No,” Bucky agreed. 

“The world is a big place. There’s plenty of places for two guys to get lost,” Gabe responded. He poured the last of the cream into his coffee, but still looked dissatisfied by the color.

“We have no money. It’s all tied up in this house,” Steve said softly. 

“Ask Dum Dum, why not? I have more than enough to get you anywhere you’d want to go, plus a little to live on,” the big man said.

“We couldn’t,” Bucky said immediately—before Steve had a chance to protest himself.

“I’ve never been anywhere but New York,” he said to himself instead.

“New Orleans is lovely this time of year,” Gabe lied.

“It won’t be forever,” Bucky said softly, placing his hand on Steve’s skinny thigh. Steve hid his dismay behind his coffee mug. 

“You can drive down with me tomorrow,” Dum Dum offered. Steve bit his tongue on another protest. These guys moved fast.

“You live in Pittsburgh,” Bucky pointed out. Dugan shrugged. “It’ll be a nice pit stop,” he said.

“I suppose we should pack,” the former captain replied, resting his chin in his hand. Steve put his mug on the table and slipped out of the kitchen. Bucky followed a moment or two later. Steve was wiping away tears while he pulled their never-used suitcases out from under the bed. In fact, Steve had inherited them from his mother. They were the same ones she and his father had used when they came to New York.

“Hey,” Bucky called gently.

“Sorry, Buck. I’m a little on edge today.” He emptied a drawer of underwear into a corner of the suitcase. Luckily, they didn’t own much of anything.

“Can’t imagine why. I ain’t gonna lie, sugar, and say everything will be alright, ‘cause I don’t know. But I swear, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“Except you, right?” Steve snapped.

“What?”

The smaller man clenched his jaw. “Nothing,” he bit out.

Bucky swallowed and sat down on the bed. His hands rested pensively on his thighs. “I know I hurt you, Stevie. I know this is all my fault. If you want me to go, I will. I just—I don’t—“

“I don’t want you to go. We’re in this to the end, remember? I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep. And this is my home.” He threw his things down in frustration. Truth was, he _did_ blame Bucky. He wanted him to be normal. Why couldn’t he just be normal?

“You could take a nap,” Bucky suggested with that blank-eyed stare that Steve had become accustomed to. The one that meant he wasn’t really there.

“No, I’m not taking a nap,” Steve said waspishly. “You killed a man last night! I’m surprised Agent Carter hasn’t already called the cops!”

Bucky winced. “She won’t. But they’ll come for both of us.”

Steve pulled his lips into his mouth and stared up at the ceiling, as though it held answers. Getting mad at Bucky was useless—counterintuitive, really. He shut down or lashed out. Steve was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for a hand to come out and pop him. God, he wanted a drink. A bump would be even better. He’d done this to his body for Bucky, and damned if he wasn’t starting to resent him for it.

Bucky put his hand on Steve’s shoulder, and the skinny man shrugged it off. “Don’t touch me. Not right now.”

And Bucky snapped. “What was I supposed to do, huh? Let him rape you?” he shouted, jumping to his feet. His hands curled into fists at his side. “I didn’t _tell_ you to go along with Howard’s experiments! I didn’t _order_ you to try heroin! I didn’t _command_ you to become a fucking whore!”

Steve slapped Bucky hard. The implication was only too clear: Bucky did what he did because he was ordered to. Steve did what he did because he was a shitty person.

Bucky hit him back, and he didn’t pull the punch. Steve was knocked back on the bed, but he scrambled to his feet in time for Bucky to fall on him again, completely out of control. The commotion must have alerted the other men in the house, because not long after Bucky started raining blows down on Steve’s face and chest, he was pulled away. Gabe and Dugan struggled to restrain him while Jim helped Steve up. The blond’s face was almost unrecognizable with blood and bruising, but even now, it was starting to heal.

Steve spit the blood from his mouth at Bucky’s feet. The brunet had collapsed in the other men’s arms, howling. 

“Fuck this!” Steve slurred. His jaw might be dislocated; it was hard to tell. He grabbed his coat, shoved his feet into his shoes, and pushed past the crowd of veterans. “I can’t take this anymore!”

On his way out, he popped his jaw back into place with two fingers placed on his back molars. No one tried to stop him. No one said anything; Bucky just cried. It broke Steve’s heart, but he couldn’t stay. He was so damned tired of being slapped around because he was _convenient_. No. No more.

“Steve! Steve, please, don’t leave me!” Bucky sobbed, and Steve slammed the door behind him.

* * *

 

Steve took a train from New York to St. Louis. By the time the train arrived in the station, his face had healed. He’d nicked someone’s wallet to finance his trip, which, while not ideal, he intended to repay. It was snowing and miserably cold in St. Louis; Steve was starving and would need a place to stay the night. He wanted to move further west, but he’d need more money first. 

He took a bus to the SLU campus and slipped inside the first chapel he saw. It was warm inside, but dim. A few candles guttered in the corners, but the main lights had shut off. It was quiet, quiet. Steve sat down in front of the statue of Mary and bowed his head. He’d believed once, but after the first time he sucked cock for money, it felt like a joke. And if the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki proved that there was no God, nothing else would.

He must have drifted off to sleep, because the next he knew, a man ( _a priest_ , Steve’s sleepy brain supplied) was shaking him awake.

“Come on, kid, you can’t sleep here,” he whispered. The priest was young, handsome. In another life, Steve would have thought it a shame the man was celibate.

“Sorry,” he grumbled, “I didn’t mean to.” Steve pushed a hand through his hair, but it just flopped back into his eyes again. “I’ll go.”

“Do you need a ride back to your dorm? I’m heading for the rectory now,” the priest said, gripping Steve’s shoulder. The contact felt good—nonsexual, nonthreatening. 

“Okay,” he replied; “I live in Walsh.” It was the only name he remembered from his trip in. 

“Alright. I’m Father Timothy. I haven’t seen you here before—is everything okay?”

“No. But it’s nothing you can fix.” Steve got to his feet, awkwardly shuffling after the priest. Father Timothy kept glancing back at him, trying to figure him out, Steve was sure.

“Talking about it can help,” the priest suggested. Steve just gave him an appraising look and shrugged. He needed a ride more than he needed advice. The priest just sighed and showed him to his car. Steve waited inside, his coat wrapped tightly around him while Father Timothy cranked the engine.

“Girl trouble?” the priest suggested when he slipped behind the steering wheel. 

“Didja get a good look at me, Father? Nah, it’s not girl trouble. Thanks for the ride, by the way.” 

“Alright,” the priest repeated. “Why Mary?”

“Hm?” 

“Why did you sit in front of Mary tonight?” 

“I always sit in front of Mary when I go to mass. She reminds me of my ma,” Steve explained. 

“Are you from New Orleans or New York? Your accent is throwing me off,” the priest said. 

“Brooklyn,” Steve answered. 

“And you’re not really a student, are you? Walsh is the girls-only dorm.” Father Timothy had a small smile on his face, which, in turn, made Steve smile. 

“No. I just wanted a warm place to sleep. I left Brooklyn in a rush. No real plan. When I was a kid, I would go to St. Patrick’s when I got into trouble and was afraid to go home.” 

“Well, you can stay at the rectory tonight. I didn’t catch your name.” 

“I didn’t give it. I’m Steve Rogers.”

Father Timothy put him in the guest room, and Steve got a good night’s rest for the first time since he left. The fact that he woke to a pillow wet with tears was only par for the course. He missed Brooklyn; he missed _Bucky_ , but he told himself that the Bucky he left was not the one he knew.

It was a lie that made staying away that much easier.

He stayed in St. Louis a few days longer at Father Timothy’s request. Steve knew he was valiantly trying to save his soul, but Steve kept him at arm’s length. When he had enough money from writing a couple kids’ term papers, he took another bus, this one to Wichita. Money was not as easy to come by here, so he ended up staying through the winter. 

And what a long winter it was. He got a job at a soda fountain, which suddenly became more popular with middle-aged men than teenyboppers. Steve had the occasional fling with a farmer’s son or travelling salesman, but was otherwise chaste. He thought of Bucky a lot. He wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake.

After the winter, he took a train from Kansas City to Las Vegas and stayed there.

* * *

 

The 1950s was a god-forsaken decade, but the 60s were productive for Steve. He drew subversive comics that gained notoriety in the underground scene. He was, in a small way, a prominent counter-culture figure. He had a boyfriend, a poet named Michael, but neither was very serious about the other.

Steve was meeting with a publisher in Manhattan, his first time in New York in twenty years (not that his face showed he was nearing fifty) and his agent insisted he see one of the new nightclubs that had sprung up. There was a poetry slam going on while Steve smoked cigarette after cigarette and downed glass after glass of brandy, but he paid little attention.

There was a man in the corner who wouldn’t stop staring at him. His hair was long, filthy, and hanging in his face. He was smoking as well, taking pensive little puffs off his cigarette as he stared over at Steve’s table. 

Steve’s agent was still talking at him when he got up from the table and went to the bar. He ordered a bottle of Rolling Rock and went to the stranger’s table. “Need a haircut, Buck,” he said, plopping down across from him. 

Bucky popped the top off his beer (of course Steve would remember his favorite) and drank deeply. “You’re looking a little rough yourself.”

Steve ran his hand through his longish hair and tucked it behind one ear. “It’s the style.”

“I read your comics. I like ‘em.”

Steve allowed himself a small smile. “Thanks. I like your books.” 

Bucky’s mouth fell open and he nearly lost his cigarette. “How—“

“I’m pretty clever,” he smirked. “And I would know your writing style anywhere. A letter every week for five years during the war.”

“I guess so. Do you—“

“Of course I do. I miss you every goddamn day,” Steve interrupted. “ _Every damned day_.” 

Bucky looked away, presumably to hide gathering tears. “I’m sorry I did this to us.”

Steve took a long drag off his cigarette and shrugged as he let the smoke curl from the corners of his mouth. “And you? Do you miss me?”

“Dumb question,” Bucky replied sourly.

“My hotel is a few blocks from here, if you wanted to go someplace more private,” Steve offered.

“Won’t you come home?” Bucky growled. 

“Why don’t you start by taking me on a date?” Steve smiled, an honest, genuine smile. Bucky had always been his, and he had always belonged to Bucky. Maybe time apart was what they had needed.

Bucky grinned back at him. “Dinner and a movie? There’s a place in Times Square playing _Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!_ ”

“Shit, let’s go!” Steve replied, jumping to his feet. 

And he held out his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr: stuckypuddles.tumblr.com


End file.
